Nicole Jordan (26 page)

And yet Diana didn’t believe her own reassurances, for she knew that facing Francis would only bring back all the painful memories she had striven so hard to forget.

During the whole of dinner, she tasted little of what she ate. She felt Thorne looking at her oddly, and saw him lift a quizzical eyebrow when she sent back her plate for the fish course practically untouched.

Realizing she appeared distracted, she made a fierce effort to compose herself and managed to give a reasonable pretense of enjoying the remainder of the dinner, including conversing politely with Thorne’s illustrious father on her left.

By ten o’clock, however, Diana’s nerves were strained with tension. She stood in the receiving line just inside the ballroom’s entrance doors, along with Lady Hennessy, Cecily, Amy, and Thorne, to welcome the guests. Judging by the throng already filling the room, the ball promised to be the most crowded fete of the Season thus far. If so, it would be a triumph for Amy and Cecily—and for Diana, as well.

Amy, who stood on Diana’s right, seemed very cognizant of tonight’s importance and was on her best behavior, except when it came to John Yates. Apparently at odds with Yates again, Amy refused his request to sign her dance card.

“It has nothing to do with your missing leg,” she muttered. “It is solely because you are rude and overbearing.” Leaving Yates red-faced and chagrined, Amy turned and offered a brilliant smile to the next guest in line.

On Diana’s left, Thorne assumed a proprietary air as he introduced her to numerous of his acquaintances. But only one incident managed to divert her troubled thoughts—when a pretty young debutante came through the line in the wake of her mother.

“Mrs. Marling and Miss Emma Marling,” Thorne said dryly, performing the introductions.

The girl looked daggers at Diana and positively gushed at Thorne, her effusiveness so blatant that he was obviously hard-pressed to keep his temper under control. When the Marlings had moved on, Diana gave him a questioning look.

“I believe I told you,” Thorne murmured in a pained undervoice, “that the last young lady to see me nude claimed I compromised her? Miss Marling was the miscreant. In an attempt to trap me into marriage, she stole into my bedchamber when I was asleep and prearranged for her mother to find us together. I, however, declined to do the honorable thing and save the girl’s reputation.”

Diana’s eyebrows rose. “I am astonished that she could get away with such outrageous conduct and still be received by polite society.”

“The chit’s transgressions are tolerated more than most because her father is an intimate of Prinny’s. In fact, Marling is expected to make an appearance with His Royal Highness this evening. And Mrs. Marling was wise enough to keep her daughter’s ploy hushed up when they couldn’t reel me in like a floundering fish.”

Diana knew Lady Hennessy was hoping for a visit by the Prince Regent, for it would set the crowning jewel on Cecily’s and Amy’s ball. But she hadn’t known the identity of the marriage-minded schemer Thorne had been running from.

Diana would have been amused if not for the butterflies rioting in her stomach at the prospect of seeing her former suitor.

Even though she was expecting Lord Ackland, it was still an unwelcome shock when he finally appeared in the line, preceded by his wife. A plump, haughty matron, the baroness seemed quite plain and dumpy next to the tall, fair-haired gentleman whom Diana had once idolized.

Francis looked, she realized, nearly as beautiful and dreamy-eyed as he had six years ago, and for the briefest instant, the sight of him made her heart flutter painfully. For a moment she was a young girl again, feeling the ache of longing, of tenderness, of love.

It was all Diana could do not to stare at him when he took her hand and pressed it solemnly while gazing deeply into her eyes.

But then memory descended mercilessly—the bitter shame of her jilting and the scandal that followed. The pain of being branded an outcast, so devastatingly alone.

Seeing Lady Ackland’s tight, jealous smile, however, Diana crushed the tangled emotions knotting her insides and somehow managed a civil welcome. Then she introduced Lord and Lady Ackland to her current betrothed.

She could tell at once that Thorne recognized the title, for his gaze sharpened and his tone turned cool as he greeted the baron and baroness.

As soon as the couple had moved away, Thorne bent to murmur grimly in Diana’s ear. “So he was the bastard who broke your heart. That explains why you’ve been so quiet all evening. Why you’ve had that troubled frown between your eyes.”

Still a little unsteady, Diana refrained from replying, although she wasn’t surprised by Thorne’s perceptiveness, since he missed little.

Fortunately, the next guests in line commanded their attention. Shortly afterward, the receiving line was disbanded and the ball opened with the first dance, a cotillion.

Thorne led Diana out, yet it was hardly the opportune moment for private conversation. Halfway through, Diana recalled she had meant to speak to him about Venus. She had to wait for more than a half hour, though, when Thorne whisked her into a waltz, before she could mention her discovery.

When she told him the name and location of the orphanage where Venus had been raised, Thorne promised to follow up on the new lead promptly. Yet he seemed surprisingly uninterested in her achievement.

It was just then that she spied Francis waltzing with his wife. Quite without meaning to, Diana found herself studying her former suitor, asking herself how she could have fallen so ardently in love with him.

Certainly she understood why, as a girl, she would have thought him devastatingly handsome. And why she would have been attracted to his artist’s soul. No doubt also, she had been too naïve then to recognize the shallowness of his character.

But only now could she comprehend the deeper forces that had driven her: how vulnerable she had been then, how
needy.

She’d been an orphan much of her life. Even though she had a dear family—her aunt and uncle and cousins—she’d felt an undeniable sense of aloneness. Francis had somehow filled that aching void inside her, had fulfilled her yearning for love.

Diana shook her head sadly, letting out a deep sigh.

She wasn’t aware her gaze was still riveted on Francis until she felt Thorne’s arm tighten about her waist.

“You should keep your attention focused on me,” he said in a biting tone as he whirled her away. When Diana glanced up at him, she saw his jaw was set in a hard line.

Feeling herself flush, she wished the dance would end. Thorne was an expert at waltzing, but the press of bodies and the heat from the myriad chandeliers seemed suddenly oppressive, while the exertion left her feeling a bit dizzy.

Perhaps Thorne noticed her discomfort, for at the conclusion, he wordlessly urged her out the open French doors and onto the terrace.

The late April evening was pleasantly temperate; the gardens below, enchantingly lit with Chinese lanterns. The tone of Thorne’s voice, however, held an unmistakable chill. “You evidently need a moment to recover your composure.”

Grateful for the dim light of the terrace that hid her flush, Diana moved over to the stone balustrade, where she stood gazing out over the gardens.

“I should have been better prepared,” she said in a low tone, compelled to give Thorne some sort of explanation. “I knew I would have to face him someday if I came to London.”

“Do you still love the bastard?” Thorne demanded, joining her at the rail.

She wasn’t certain what she still felt for Francis, but it was not love. She’d had six years to get over him, to mourn his defection.

Diana managed a shrug. “I don’t believe so, but seeing him was still a shock. It brought back memories I would rather have forgotten. Being jilted is never a pleasant experience.” She forced a self-deprecating smile and glanced up at Thorne. “For my own pride’s sake, I am glad to be betrothed to you.”

Thorne’s snort expressed his disgust. “You would prefer to be betrothed to me than that bastard? Am I supposed to take that as a compliment?”

Glancing at him, she made a face, striving for lightness. “Lord Ackland is not a bastard, Thorne. I don’t blame him for needing to marry a wealthy wife.”

“He left you to deal with the scandal alone. That makes him one in my book.”

It was true that Francis had been weak. And she was still disappointed in him. But not bitter. Not any longer.

If anything, she was angry at herself. All those wasted years because she had pined for the elusive dream of love…

But she was older and wiser now. Stronger. And she had a bright new future ahead of her. Her imposed seclusion from society was at an end, thanks in large part to Thorne. She had control of her life again.

Yet the memories were still too painful to dwell on.

“I don’t wish to speak of it, if you don’t mind.”

“Very well, we won’t speak of it. Come with me,” Thorne said brusquely. Grasping her hand, he led her down the wide flight of stone steps to the gardens below.

“Where are you taking me?” Diana protested.

“The orangery. My aunt has a fondness for citrus fruits, so Hennessy had a forcing-house built for her. They often took tea there together.”

His long-legged stride ate up the garden path, so that Diana had to hurry to keep up. She found herself somewhat breathless when they arrived at the door.

She had never been inside Lady Hennessy’s orangery, although she knew it was used to force out-of-season produce such as strawberries and to grow tropical plants that couldn’t withstand London’s cool climate.

Just inside the doorway, a lantern had been left burning, she saw when she entered behind Thorne. Like the larger conservatory at her uncle’s country estate, this orangery was essentially a greenhouse, with the sides made of wood and mortar, the roof of small glass panes to allow in sunlight. She suspected the structure was kept warm by a coal stove and humid by a fountain; instantly she could feel the warm, moist air on her face and arms, and she could hear the trickle of water somewhere beyond the lush vegetation that greeted them.

Shutting the door, Thorne led Diana along one of three aisleways into the dimmer interior, which was fragrant with the scents of blossoms and damp earth. Flanking either side of the aisles were large, porcelain cache-pots containing ornamental trees of lime, lemon, and orange, as well as small palms and other exotic plants she didn’t even recognize. At the center of the building, a comfortable sitting area complete with tea table and sideboard was grouped against the far wall, in front of a marble fountain.

Diana did recognize the statue of a maiden with a lion sprawled at her feet. “This resembles the fountain in the courtyard of your villa,” she said curiously.

“It is the same design. I had it shipped here as a gift to my aunt several years ago. The female figure is supposed to be the nymph, Cyrene.”

At the reminder of the island myth, Diana felt her melancholy fade a little. Moving to stand by the flowing fountain, she traced the smooth curves of the wet marble. “What does the lion signify?”

“According to legend, Cyrene was said to wrestle lions,” Thorne replied, his tone still brusque. “That’s why Apollo fell in love with her.”

Diana couldn’t help being amused. “Lions? Truly?”

“Truly. He admired her unique courage.”

“I wouldn’t call it courage,” Diana replied with a dubious glance at Thorne. “It seems rather reckless and foolhardy to battle lions.”

Thorne felt his heart turn over at the unconscious sensuality in her smile. He was glad to have taken Diana’s mind off her damned fortune-hunter. It made his own angry tension easier to bear.

All through dinner he’d realized she was upset about something, and discovering the cause of her distress had only roused his anger. He had wanted to throttle Ackland with his bare hands—even before he saw Diana gazing after the bastard with that quiet yearning in her eyes.

The savagery that had ripped through him then was pure, primal male jealousy, Thorne admitted with grudging honesty. He’d felt a fierce surge of possessiveness, as well, which was wholly abnormal for him. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d felt true possessiveness toward any woman. But he felt it toward Diana.

Thorne muttered a silent oath. He shouldn’t care if she was still in love with her blasted suitor, but he sure as hell did. He wanted more than anything to shield her from heartache.

That urgent need, even more than his anger, had driven him to sweep her away from the ball and practically drag her here, where he could have her alone. His one goal now was to make her forget that bastard and her heartbreak.

Thorne drew a slow breath, trying to calm his anger.

Deliberately, he reached up and touched her mouth with his thumb. Diana gave a start at the contact, her lips parting wordlessly, while her gaze flew to his.

The tension Thorne was feeling turned suddenly from dark emotion to raw sexual awareness. Diana felt the same tension, he knew, for her breath had faltered and she was staring at him, as if unable to move.

Thorne felt another rush of tenderness flow through him, even as he realized another truth. Along with the need to soothe her distress and comfort her was a more selfish desire: he wanted her thinking solely of him. And he knew exactly how to manage it.

His thumb glided over her lower lip, then slowly trailed downward, over her throat to the swell of her bosom. Diana remained rigid as he curled his fingers over her bodice and drew it down a fraction, enough to expose the rose-hued crests of her breasts.

He heard her sharp intake of breath, but when he caught one nipple between the backs of two fingers and exerted gentle pressure, she made a soft, strangled sound and grasped his hand to halt him.

“You can’t, Thorne…. We must return to the ballor we will be missed.”

“Not for a while. And I have no intention of returning just yet. I have something I want to show you first.”

“What?”

“Pleasure, love. The next step in your sensual instruction.”

He drew down her bodice farther, so that the fragile skin of her shoulders and breasts were free to the night’s kiss and to his own. Diana didn’t fight him, but she shut her eyes, as if striving for control.